


Location, Location, Location

by Britpacker



Series: Life On Earth [2]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-23
Updated: 2011-05-23
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:02:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: House hunting, Tucker/Reed style.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Standard disclaimers, etc etc, etc. No beta, so blame me for the errors.  
>  I've been toying with a whole series of futurefic ideas for a while now. And fellow-Brits: I promise to try and avoid any more TV series titles!

"It's a real nice place," Captain Charles Tucker the Third said wistfully as their escort locked the townhouse door. From the top of the small flight of steps he glanced down the quiet street, taking in the well-tended three-storey exteriors protected from the road by smart iron railings and the shady mature trees that stood sentinel along the pavement. "I like this part of town, even if we weren't really thinkin' of living this close to Starfleet Headquarters."

"It's a very desirable neighbourhood; and there's quite a community of Starfleet personnel." The agent, a smart blonde in a navy skirt suit, took one look at the blank face of her smaller client and applied a mental boot to her own rear end. "It's easily inside your proposed budget, so creating the workspace you wanted in the backyard wouldn't be an issue, Captain, and the office space seems ideal for your requirements, Commander Reed."

"It's lovely." Despite the compliment, the tone was dubious, and a glance his husband's way assured Malcolm his meaning had got through. "But really, it fronts straight onto the street, and putting up a workshop in the back wouldn't leave enough from for a potted plant, still less that _big green space_ Trip's so keen on. I can't see it working for us, love."

"No." The older man looked so downcast he had to catch his hand, bringing it to his lips regardless of their amused audience. "Sheesh, if I'd known house-hunting was gonna be so hard, I'd 've asked for our quarters on Enterprise back!"

"Trip, we've only been looking for two weeks." Over his shoulder, the Englishman cast an apologetic smile. "Thank you for bringing this house to our attention, Ms Canning; I like the proportions and style, but it requires too many compromises for us. You'll keep us informed of anything else that crops up?"

"I'll forward you the updated property list tonight, Commander." Susanne Canning was used to impatient clients, indecisive clients and plain incompetent clients, often all in the same session. She had a pleasant feeling the latter two elements were going to be absent from her dealings with Starfleet's famous newlyweds, however fidgety Captain Tucker might appear. "Maybe if the two of you draw up a list of non-negotiable points..."

"Garden," Trip decreed.

"Privacy," Malcolm countered, courteously offering a handshake to the smiling woman. "Shouldn't take us long to come to a compromise, love. God knows, we've practised enough over the last ten years."

"Gotta get back to work." With a wide, disarming grin to the agent, Trip grabbed his husband's hand and gave a gentle tug. "We can work on the list after dinner, 'kay? Thanks, Ms Canning."

She could hear them tossing non-negotiables at each other until they were at the bottom of the street. 

Turning back to her car, Susanne Canning's professional composure cracked into a brilliant smile of her own. Yes, she'd struck lucky getting two Starfleet heroes for clients. She would be almost sorry to say goodbye, even if it meant finding them the home they deserved.

*

"Aw, Malcolm! We'll need a garden for the kids t' enjoy!"

"Trip, we've barely been married six weeks; only started our jobs a fortnight ago. Isn't it a bit soon to be planning an enormous family?"

The two men glared at each other from a range of millimetres, their faces pressed up close before a computer screen displaying every potentially interesting property within a fifty kilometre radius of San Francisco. "You won't wanna go through moving all our stuff into a bigger place when we have kids though," Trip pointed out, keeping his tone reasonable despite the irritated glint cooling his bright eyes. "It's only sensible to get a house a baby'll fit into, when we're both good and ready."

"You're probably right, but it's all too much to take in at once: being married, I mean, buying a house, fitting into new jobs, and now you're talking about children as well..." Helplessly, Malcolm threw up his hands, almost smacking his husband in the face. "Sorry."

For more than the near-injury, and Trip knew it. "It's okay. I don't want to pressure you, I'm just _trying_ to think ahead for once."

With a slight turn of the head, Malcolm could brush his lips against Trip's. "It's just as well one of us is," he murmured. "Because it wouldn't have occurred to me! What do you think about this one, then? Three beds, two receptions, kitchen-diner, attic office space and a shed. Looks a bit small for your stuff, mind."

"Nah. It's right on the road, with only a wooden fence between the street and the front windows. How about this one? Three beds, separate dining room - bit formal for my liking, but never mind... workshop..."

Malcolm rested his head against the taller man's shoulder. "Didn't we look at that one last week?" he asked, gnawing his well-shaped lower lip. "It looks awfully familiar."

"Shit. That's the one with the really small lounge, right?"

"And a lovely high hedge that screened it completely from passers-by." He'd happily accept a box the size of his cabin on Enterprise for the kind of seclusion they had enjoyed on a cramped and gossip-ridden starship, Malcolm admitted wryly; he, who had spent years cringing from the smugly knowing looks of his starry-eyed romantic shipmates. It was as well they'd both been set on positions planetside; his ability to blend into the background, that prerequisite for a successful tactical officer, had dissolved under the spotlight of media attention that followed the staff of NX-01 Enterprise everywhere they poked their noses.

He had half expected to find some inquisitive local bloodhound outside the first few properties they viewed, but Susanne Canning deserved the glowing references Admiral Archer had given. At least the most stressful hours of his life to date were proving private.

"We'd better stay outta San Fran, then." With a guilty start he realised Trip had been watching him, deep worry lines cutting the smoothness of his golden brow. "Unless..."

Now the worry, Malcolm suspected, wasn't for him. "Spit it out," he instructed wearily. "What bright idea are you trying to manipulate into something I won't throw a paddywack at?"

"Aw, Malcolm!" The smaller man had moved back and was regarding him as he used to especially suspicious aliens Captain Archer had offered tours of Enterprise. "I was talking to Johnny while I was waiting for you at the transporter station. He just mentioned there's a beach house real near his available..."

"Absolutely not!"

It was, Trip acknowledged, the reaction he had anticipated. The sinking feeling in his gut was idiotic. He'd mumbled something to his oldest friend about how good it'd be to live close, and he'd meant it. No point hurting the guy by explaining that Malcolm would never go for it.

Confirmation still hurt. "You like Jon," he whimpered, hating how pathetic he sounded. "And sometimes I think he likes you better than me! You like his house, too, or were you bein' all British and _polite_ at the housewarming?"

"Where are the Suliban when you need them?" his husband muttered, looping a strong arm around his downbent neck. Or a rogue Romulan mine, his mind supplied. "Love, I'm very fond of Jonathan, and his new home is lovely. I just don't want a senior officer turning up with his dog every evening after dinner because he's all alone and wants to watch water polo and drink beer with his best buddy."

"Jon wouldn't intrude!"

"No?"

Just the twitch of an eyebrow was all it took to transport Trip Tucker back to Enterprise and too many evenings with two sets of big hopeful eyes, one bright green, the other round and dark, set above a short beagle muzzle, silently pleading for him to stay after dinner in the Captain's Mess. Johnny had apologised; blushed and mumbled he understood of course Trip wanted to spend the evening with his lover. Then, no more than two nights later, he'd bound up in the hallway, Porthos skittering around his ankles and a chip containing the latest playoffs in his hand.

They had reached a compromise in the last couple of years; once a week, Trip spent the whole evening with his best friend, and Jon left him alone to share the rest of his downtime with Malcolm. And they'd all pretended none of them felt guilty in any way.

Trip always felt it, hating the thought of his old friend being lonesome. Malcolm dreaded water polo nights, knowing he would face Trip's apologies and the Captain's embarrassed thanks. Archer spent the evening munching pretzels, drinking beer and watching the time, waiting for the first bashful fidget to signal his buddy's patience reaching its end. 

No, Malcolm assured himself. They were married now. No longer direct subordinates. Dinner occasionally was one thing. Jon Archer on the doorstep every time he got tired of talking to his dog was something else altogether. "Ever tried your hand at matchmaking," he asked, not very hopefully. 

Trip caught on at once. "Darlin' I almost screwed up my own match, remember?"

The tension dissipated. Malcolm laughed. "I think you had some help with that," he admitted ruefully. "And I don't mean to be selfish, Trip, but... honestly, newlyweds oughtn't to be expected to deal with visits for at least the first - oh, two years of marriage."

"'kay." Impulsively Trip tugged his spouse into a bone-crunching hug. "We better find us a place soon, then, 'cause Jonny'll not be put off mentioning it 'til we do."

"We need to find a house for the sake of my sanity, first and foremost." Casting a disgusted glance around their overcrowded Starfleet apartment, Malcolm tried not to linger on the boxes piled up against every spare wall. "Where did we acquire so much rubbish?"

"Um, figure most 'f it's pro'bly mine."

"I've got more paper books than I realised." Perfect pink lips puckered up into a discontented moue. "And the one I want always seems to be buried at the bottom of the last box I check. I don't even want to think how much dust we're collecting! You'll come home one day and find me all puffy-eyed and wheezy, dripping snot all over the bed if we're not out of here soon."

"You're awful cute when you're sick." The quip did its job. Malcolm let his head drop onto his partner's shoulder, a faint shimmer of laughter passing between their bodies. "Even if you do whine and bitch more 'n usual! We're trying to do a lot of things at once here, Mal; new lives, new jobs, findin' us a home... I know you stress about things, but we'll get there."

"I know we will." That blithe assurance had aggravated him so much in the early days. Malcolm couldn't even remember now when he had begun to rely on it. "It's just all such a bloody faff!"

"Forget about it." With a decisive snap Trip shut down the computer, bringing up his hand to tilt the Englishman's face up to his smiling blue eyes. "Forget about everything but me now, darlin'."

"And how am I supposed to do that, Captain?" Mirth shot through with something deeper gleamed in the expressive grey eyes; something that started a responsive shimmer deep in Trip Tucker's balls. Giving a gentle shove to urge his husband up, he stood, drawing the precious man close into his arms.

"That sounds like a challenge to me, Commander," he purred against the delicate shell of Malcolm's ear. His answer was a breathy sigh.

"One I'm sure you're more than equal to, love. Take me to bed."

*

Looking at potential homes, Malcolm was rapidly concluding as he trailed silently after his husband and their earnest agent, made beating off incessant alien attacks seem like child's play. Every lunch break, and half their weekday evenings, were taken up the same way, and so far, nothing had come up to scratch. This one was perfect, if one overlooked the absence of a workshop; that ideal, save for the next-door neighbour peering over the white-painted fence.

This one, for instance. 15 kilometres from San Francisco, a quiet town with plenty of green spaces, good facilities and its own transporter pad, it had sounded close to faultless.

The reality didn't match their hopes, though Trip was politely appreciating the unique features, Ms Canning was pointing out (thus sparing his spouse the effort, a kindness Malcolm made a mental note to repay him for later), while diffidently drawing attention to the place's obvious drawbacks. "I appreciate the office and workshop space is big, but Malcolm an' I really need separate areas for our projects."

"And if I were to turn one of the bedrooms into an office, we'd be awfully short on guest space," Malcolm seconded, forestalling the agent's obvious suggestion. "I do like the area, though. Hoshi's been looking at a place around here, hasn't she?"

"Yeah. Y' know, Malcolm - we'd need a bigger bathroom than this."

Mentally seconding the observation as he peeked into the compact, green-tiled facilities, Malcolm gave his partner a friendly clip. "I think our list of requirements is extensive enough already! The master bedroom does have an en suite."

"'Bout the size of yours on Enterprise."

"Managed with that didn't we?" the Brit muttered with a worried glance at their escort. "Garden big enough for you?"

"Guess so. I'd like some trees."

He was pretty sure Susanne Canning's shoulders heaved. "It's not a deal-breaker though," he added good-naturedly. Malcolm rolled his eyes.

"I'm very glad to hear it. Seen enough?"

Trip sighed. Frustrating as it was, viewing properties got him daily lunchtimes with his new husband, and he couldn't really raise enthusiasm for heading back to work. "Guess so," he grumbled, stepping aside to let the agent lead the way downstairs. "Take the transporter back?"

Susanne Canning's car was parked close to the transporter pad, so the trio walked back together, the two Americans debating the status of their search until Trip came to a dead stop, his eyes fixed on a large FOR SALE notice hung from a set of high iron gates framed by lush green hedging. "Um, any idea about this one?" he asked, conscious of Malcolm surreptitiously checking his watch. "We've got time for a look - if you think it's worthwhile, Ms Canning."

The young woman smoothed her cream silk sleeve as she consulted her PADD. "It's over your budget, Captain, and a lot bigger than your criteria," she hedged, casting a nervous glance her more discriminating client's way. "I can request access if you're interested..."

"How much bigger?" Malcolm asked levelly. Susanne Canning relaxed. 

"Two large reception rooms plus kitchen-diner; a well equipped office and a conservatory overlooking the terrace; a workshop with tool-store across a path from the kitchen," she rattled, without needing to call up data on her PADD. "As you can probably see it's a detached property in the middle of a plot. It's not overlooked on any side; all the properties along this street are set apart and shielded by trees, hedges and walls."

"Sounds good."

They were both staring at him, one wide-eyed and hopeful, the other a mask of cool professionalism he could hardly better himself. "Our budget could be stretched, I suppose," Malcolm exhaled, fighting a grin at his husband's exuberant response. "If you've time..."

"Certainly, Commander." With a few efficient taps of the PADD she had the necessary permissions and the gates swung inward, revealing a broad gravelled drive leading to the columned white porch of an imposing symmetrical red brick structure surrounded by well-kept gardens. Trip whistled.

"Just your style, darlin'," he murmured, sliding an arm around his partner's narrow waist. Fascinated by the vision before him, Malcolm didn't object. 

Over the smaller man's head, Trip grinned at their escort. If Mal wasn't brushing off a PDA, he was halfway to hooked on the place already.

*

"Five bedrooms?" the Englishman repeated faintly. "Trip, what in God's name are we supposed to do with _five_ bedrooms? It's not even as if we'd have to turn one of them into an office, for goodness sake!"

"Yeah, that big room off the dining room'd be ideal for you already." Trip leaned back against the stout mahogany railing at the top of the first floor staircase, brilliant blue eyes sweeping the open doorways off a spacious landing "And that bathroom is my idea of paradise."

"Oh really?" Folding his arms, Malcolm shot his husband a mock glare. Trip beamed.

"Hell, can you imagine coming home from a tough day at the office to that big ol' whirlpool bath full 'f hot water, bubbles and each other?" he cooed, leaning close as if to protect the words. Susanne Canning was outside, giving her clients time to inspect the place, something she hadn't done often. Trip suspected she knew one of them, at least, was smitten.

Something deep inside Malcolm shivered at the images stirred up. "Only too well," he confessed, referring to much more than his marked personal preference for baths above shipboard showers. "And that workshop-cum-toolshed... knock the dividing wall down and it'd be ideal for you."

"Flagstone floor, plenty of natural light..." Trip agreed, fighting to keep his inward grin from coming through. "And it having an attic suite means the kids'd never be disturbed by... _you_ know."

Mentioning offspring was a calculated risk, but it won him a wry half-smirk. "There is that," Malcolm acknowledged, letting his hands drop to his sides. "But it's _enormous!_ Our stuff wouldn't fill the dining room."

"You know I'm a magpie, darlin'; I'll have the place cluttered in no time."

Damn, he was wheedling, and Malcolm couldn't resist that. Still, honour demanded he try.

"It's way beyond what we agreed to spend; and I'll get lost on my way to the front door."

"I'll drop y' a trail of pineapple pieces to follow." Pushing himself off the railing, Trip seized his spouse's hand and hauled him bodily to the smaller second stair, up to the large open space beneath the roof's slope. A smart bathroom with a double shower stood at one corner; the other end of the building was lit by large windows overlooking a manicured stretch of lush garden backed by mature trees. "Can't you imagine wakin' up here every morning?"

Only too easily. Despite its size, the house had a warm atmosphere, one that had made him relax even as he'd endured Susanne Canning professional chirpiness and Trip's boundless enthusiasm for the shape of the bathtaps for what felt like the five hundredth time in a week. "It's ridiculous to even think of it! We don't need all this space; and you won't have time to maintain that garden."

"You could help." Head on one side, Trip waggled his eyebrows before coming up behind the smaller man at the window and wrapping his arms around the trim waist. Malcolm snorted.

"Oh yes, I'm _awful cute_ when my allergies are playing up, aren't I?" he growled, feeling the amusement shimmer through the lean body pressed against his back. Trip's chin came down on his shoulder, faint huffs of warm breath feathering his neck. "Gardens are yours, Captain Tucker. I have trouble enough with a window box!"

"But you'd join me in a hammock if I swung one between the trees at the back there, yeah?"

"Aren't they oaks? Still, I suppose my allergy meds would protect me; if we weren't out there all day."

He couldn't believe he was even considering the place. Five bedrooms! Three would be more than enough, and who on Earth needed a formal dining room when they owned a kitchen-diner the size of Enterprise's galley and mess hall combined?

But it was secluded, and even the understated décor was just to his taste. It gave him a cosy feeling despite its size, and Trip was practically quivering with excitement, looking more like a man about to get his hands on a whole new alien engine than a gigantic house they almost certainly couldn't afford.

"Damn and blast!"

"You like it too, huh?" Yes, Trip had known that, but getting his other half to admit such an impractical sentiment would be a major triumph. Malcolm shrugged, keeping his eyes on the bright flowerbeds spreading below them.

"What is there to dislike?" he asked. "Except the monumental stupidity of buying a place with so much scope for sulking in."

"Jeez darlin' I know how you can sulk, and I'd sooner you had room to do it at the other side 'f the house than just across the bedroom." Chuckling softly, Trip gave the beautiful body in his arms a playful squeeze. "Maybe Ms Canning can fix us a deal with the vendor. She got Jon's place real cheap, so maybe she can work a miracle for us too."

"Don't get your hopes up."

The arm around his waist gave a bone-crunching pinch. "That's my Mal," Trip approved ruefully. "The eternal optimist."

"One of us has to keep a level head." Slippery as an eel, Malcolm turned to plant a tender kiss against his husband's stubbled chin before breaking free and wandering toward the door. 

"It's not like we couldn't afford it." He was dangerously close to pleading, and he got _The Eyebrow_ by way of warning. "We got ten years' deep space pay almost untouched, and this place has been hanging so long they'll most likely take the first reasonable offer. It's _us_ , Malcolm. You're feelin' it too, or we'd be out the door and onto the next place by now."

"It's beautiful," Malcolm agreed, sharp white teeth sinking deep enough into his succulent lower lip to leave indentations Trip ached to lick away. "But it's not practical, love, and you know it."

"We'd never hafta move again, and you know you hate all this kinda thing." Okay, so it wouldn't win any Vulcan prizes for logic but it was a point in his favour, and Trip would take whatever he got. The stern set of the Brit's lips relaxed.

"We'd never bloody find each other!"

That was easy. "Darlin' you always know where to find me. Just whistle and I'll come a-running."

"Labrador Tucker?" A definite smile at the mental image. Emboldened, Trip crossed the room, giving his partner another quick squeeze before pattering down the attic stair.

"It's the best we've seen yet, isn't it?" he ventured over his shoulder.

"Easily," Malcolm conceded, ruthless training enabling him to repress the shimmer of regret he felt in following the blond down to the ground floor. "All right, Mistah Tuckah, you win. I won't rule it out on cost and scale alone. It's just..."

"I know it's not what we were looking for, Mal, but hell - we've started out with the wrong ideas before." On a point he knew to be indubitable, Trip bolted for the security of an outsider's presence, safe in the knowledge his husband wouldn't make a scene in front of Susanne Canning. "We're gonna sleep on it," he announced.

Considering how pissed Mal usually looked when presented with a fait accompli, he figured the semi-scowl counted (almost) as agreement.

*

"It's a bit _small_ ," Trip complained, three days later as they trooped in Susanne Canning's perfumed wake around a smart three-bedroom detached house set back from a quiet residential street. Acutely aware of the marginal tensing of the woman's shoulders, Malcolm gave his disappointed spouse a filthy look.

"It's more or less exactly what we asked for; although I admit the main bathroom's a bit compact," he countered. Trip grinned.

"Couldn't fit a whirlpool bath in there," he murmured, delighted by the flare of unadulterated lust in the changeable eyes. "Hell, you could barely fit us both in the shower. It doesn't feel _right_ , Mal."

"Ms Canning, will you give us a few minutes?" Raising his voice, Malcolm stopped the agent in her tracks. Her professional smile firmly affixed, the blonde gave him a friendly nod.

"Certainly, Commander. I'll be in the garden."

"You know darlin', I don't think that woman likes me." Gloomily throwing himself down onto the large cream velvet couch Trip glowered at his husband. Pointedly remaining on his feet, Malcolm rolled his eyes.

"When she finds exactly what you ask for and you then say it's not what you want..." he drawled, softening into a smile at the hangdog look he received. Trying to retain a severe tone, he crossed the room to loom over his slouching spouse. "You've lost your heart, haven't you?"

Trip's full bottom lip trembled, and Malcolm silently cursed himself for finding it so utterly kissable. "Mah heart was lost t' you a _looonng_ time ago, Mister Reed," the Southerner replied, melting what was left of the Englishman's in the process. "It's just - aw, shit! I didn't realise 'til now how much I loved that big ol' red brick house!"

"Didn't you?" Surprised, Malcolm flopped down beside him as Trip's arm raised automatically to wind around him. "It's been blindingly obvious to me for ages."

"You're the observant one, darlin'." And, Trip admitted inwardly, he'd made damned sure not to see the obvious for himself. "I know it's expensive, but they've been trying to sell for over a year. If Susanne Canning's the smartass hot-shot folks say, she'll get it for us at a good price. Just imagine never having to go through all this again, because we'd never outgrow the place."

"Not even with a Tucker-size family?" He managed a theatrical shudder that earned a sheepish grin, just the kind of _loveable hick_ expression he couldn't resist. "It _is_ a wonderful place, and yes, we could afford even the extortionate price they're asking, but..."

"You gotta justify everything to yourself, babe. I know. Ow!"

"Use that disgusting term towards me again and the poke will be in your eye, not your ribs."

The lack of heat in the threat startled him before exhilarated joy surged up from his gut. "You liked the other place better too, didn't you?"

Malcolm answered with a crisp nod. "I'm trying to be reasonable and dismiss it," he said mournfully. "But then I'll suddenly picture that big bathtub, or realise the kitchen here's painted _lime green_ , for fuck's sake, and..."

"I know." Keeping the glee out of his voice wasn't easy, but as the brunet nuzzled deeper into the crook of his arm Trip congratulated himself on managing it. "It's too big and it's too expensive, but that house felt like home to me too. I don't think anyplace else is gonna match up."

The sable head lolled against his shoulder, and with a minimal head-turn Trip could watch spiky dark lashes sweep down against his husband's pale cheeks. "It's not, is it?" the younger man admitted. "We've buggered up again, Mistah Tuckah."

"Or maybe we've jus' taken our sweet time figuring what we really want again," the engineer countered hopefully. "We _have_ figured it, haven't we?"

He could almost hear the last squeal of protest inside his partner's skull before all the tension leeched out of the wiry body. "Yes," Malcolm whispered, the dizzy sensation he associated with sudden, intense relief (usually connected with a certain chief engineer emerging unharmed from a scrape, he admitted silently) sweeping through him. "I think we have. How much did this woman get off Jonathan's house, exactly?"

"Maybe half of what she's about get off of ours, Commander Reed." With a delighted whoop Trip leapt upright and yanked his unresisisting soulmate up off his feet, swinging the smaller man until his instinctive objections had been swamped in laughter. "She told me nobody's even looked around the place in months - there's a deal to be done and I won't give her a break 'til she's done it. You ready to go buy us a new home?"

"As soon as you put me down and my head stops spinning, you blitherin' halfwit." With a kiss to soften the insult, Malcolm struggled out of his spouse's strong arms, exaggerating his first staggering step toward the front door. "Ms Canning? I believe our decision is made, but tell me: how cheeky do you think we can be on the asking price? If we are going to move into Blenheim Palace, California, I'd rather like some cash left in the bank for fixtures and fittings! Get a wriggle on, Trip! We're supposed to be meeting Travis for dinner in less than an hour, and I want to see the look on his face when you tell him we're getting _five bedrooms_!"


End file.
